


still here

by enamuko



Series: FE Rarepair Week 2k19 [6]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: A rare pure angst from me lmao, Also 'Miklan isn't a terrible brother' AU, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 13:35:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20931089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enamuko/pseuds/enamuko
Summary: After the Tragedy of Duscur, after losing Glenn, Miklan is still here.He's still fucking here.Why?





	still here

**Author's Note:**

> lmao even in a canon-compliant fic i made miklan a good brother, idk man i just want sylvain to have one half-decent family member IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK  
Written for Fire Emblem Rarepair week (albeit late)! Prompt is "Bitter".

When the news first reaches him, it’s like his entire world has been pulled out from under him, and he just has to stand there and pretend like his life isn’t coming to an end in a flash.

The messenger drones on about casualties, about the political situation, and his father nods and listens and they both act like Miklan isn’t even there, which he’s used to and which he doesn’t care about, because right now he doesn’t care about anything, doesn’t  _ feel _ anything. He’s completely numb.

He doesn’t care that the king is dead. All he cares about is one piece of news, one off-handed remark that’s destroyed his entire world in an instant.

_ Glenn Fraldarius perished in the battle _ .

Glenn is dead. His best friend, his partner, the love of his life.

Dead.

His hands are shaking at his sides as the messenger and his father drone on, as the conversation, the  _ world _ moves on around him, but he can’t. Because  _ Glenn is dead _ .

He can only take it for so long before he storms off and punches a hole clean through the wall on his way, not stopping for a moment when his father calls after him.

It’s brutal, how things move afterwards. At least Miklan feels like the whole kingdom is hurting and floundering with him, even if it’s for different reasons.

At least there’s a line, there:  _ Before Duscur  _ and  _ After Duscur _ , and Miklan doesn’t have to act like everything hasn’t  _ changed _ .

Sylvain is suffering. Not like he’s suffering, but he’s pushing himself to his absolute limit. Knocking on Ingrid’s door til his knuckles are raw to try and get her to come out and eat something. Trying to coax Felix away from the training grounds long enough to get some real sleep. Watching the prince drift further and further away and having no idea what to do.

Sylvain is the only thing keeping him even a little bit together. Because he’s not sure his brother could handle one more person falling completely apart right in front of him.

At least Miklan’s always been good at turning other emotions into  _ anger _ before he shoves them down.

Makes it easier.

The worst one in this whole situation is Rodrigue, he thinks.

At least his own father has the decency to be upfront about how fucking awful he is. Rodrigue has the gall to hide behind,

_ “At least he died a good death.” _

He overhears him one day, as he’s prowling the halls. It’s the Gautier residence in Fhirdiad, but it doesn’t really make a difference anymore. Everyone is everywhere. Things have broken down and everyone is just trying to hold it together as best they can.

“You should be proud of him, Felix,” he hears as he rounds the corner, and spots Rodrigue with his hand on his only remaining son’s shoulder. “He died to protect His Highness. He died a good death, performing a knight’s duty.”

He doesn’t even have time to take in the pinched, frustrated look on Felix’s face or the shaking of his fists before he has Rodrigue by the collar and has him up against the stonework, arms straining with the effort of keeping him held up, but in his anger he has Rodrigue’s feet dangling.

“Miklan!” Rodrigue’s hands shoot to his wrists, squeezing, pulling, scratching, but Miklan doesn’t feel it.

He doesn’t feel much of anything, these days, except now when he feels a boiling, white hot  _ rage _ .

“There’s no such thing as a  _ good death _ , old man,” he growls, his voice more beast than man, and he  _ likes  _ the way it sounds because that’s what he feels like. An animal running on instinct. “It doesn’t matter if you die for a ‘ _ good cause _ ’ or whatever the fuck, you’re still  _ dead _ .”

“Miklan, this is completely out of line, put me down this  _ instant _ —”

“Or  _ what _ ?”

As if he doesn’t  _ know _ he’s out of line. As if he isn’t falling apart completely and as if he  _ cares _ .

“Your father—”

“What can he  _ take _ from me now, Rodrigue? What can he take that would make me okay with standing here listening to you say that it’s okay that he’s dead because he died  _ the right way _ ?”

Rodrigue opens his mouth to say something, but Miklan doesn’t know if he thinks better of it or if something in his eyes makes him stop. But the expression on his face is…

No. Miklan doesn’t care. Just like he doesn’t care when the hand on his wrist goes from rough and trying to escape to gentle and soothing. He simply drops Rodrigue, not caring whether he lands on his feet, and stalks off.

He is acutely aware of Felix’s eyes on him the entire time— not scared, nothing like a child watching their father get roughed up by their best friend’s brother, but cold and determined.

If he’s accomplished anything, he hopes it’s to make Felix  _ see _ that the bullshit and lies his father is feeding him are just that.

“You can’t keep behaving like this, Miklan. People are starting to  _ talk _ .”

Miklan almost bursts out laughing and even though he doesn’t, the bitter laughter that it pulls from him without warning is the most he’s done since That Day.

“Let them talk,” he says. “What do I care? What do  _ you _ care? It’s not like you’ve given a shit what I say or do since the day Sylvain was born.”

He’d wanted so badly when he was a kid to blame Sylvain for all his problems, to say his life would have been so  _ perfect _ if only he hadn’t been born, or if he’d just been born with a Crest, but he knows differently now.

Glenn was the oldest son, Glenn had a Crest, and Glenn is still dead.

“I can’t simply ignore the things people have been saying about you.”

At least he doesn’t try to pretend he cares. That would be especially malicious of him and Miklan has no energy to deal with his bullshit, not today. But concern about his  _ reputation _ ? Yeah, that fits. And Miklan has  _ never _ cared about that, so it feels almost refreshing to feel a  _ normal _ apathy instead of the constant numbness that makes him not care about  _ anything _ .

“I don’t care,” he repeats.

“You’re giving me no choice, Miklan. I can’t let behaviour like this go unpunished. The things you’ve been saying— menacing the Duke like that— they bring shame to the Gautier name.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

There’s almost,  _ almost _ satisfaction in the way his father startles when he sits up and practically shouts that into his face. But more than that, there’s  _ rage _ , which is almost a comforting feeling at this point. It’s  _ familiar _ , at least.

“Whatever ‘shame’ I’m bringing to this family, this whole fucking kingdom,  _ good _ . It  _ deserves _ it. What kind of fucked up place tells people they can’t be  _ sad _ when someone dies because they died  _ the right way _ ?”

He spits and rants and  _ knows _ that his father doesn’t care, has  _ never _ cared, but he won’t stop because he wants him to know that he  _ won’t stop _ .

This isn’t just some passing fucking phase. Something inside of him is broken and gone and he is  _ never _ going to let them all forget that they’ve done this to him, and Felix, and Ingrid, and Dimitri, and even Rodrigue— no matter that he can’t get his head out of his own ass and stop licking a dead king’s boots long enough to understand exactly what he’s  _ lost _ .

Fuck, his father barely acknowledges him as a  _ person _ , nevermind a  _ son _ , all because he wasn’t born with a bloody fucking  _ Crest _ . His little brother, the  _ only good thing  _ that’s managed to come out of House Gautier since the  _ day he was born _ , is being slowly whittled down by trying to hold the emotions of  _ three other kids _ on his goddess-damned shoulders because no one will let them have their own.

And the  _ one thing _ that might have made any of this fucking  _ worth it _ is gone. He’s dead on a battlefield somewhere, they couldn’t even bring his fucking  _ body back _ — just handed his father some armour and a sword and a shield— and yet he’s still here.

He’s still here. But  _ why _ ?

For himself? Hardly, he hasn’t even been able to sleep and has barely been able to eat since he got the news. For Sylvain? Maybe, but what can he do for him when he can barely even help  _ himself _ ?

Whatever his father wants to do to him, it can’t—  _ can’t— _ be worse than what’s already been done to him. It can’t be. Miklan can’t even  _ imagine _ it. And nothing he says will ever make him stop  _ screaming _ and  _ screaming _ until they  _ understand _ .

He’s never had a choice.  _ Glenn _ never had a choice. And he’s not about to let his  _ father _ have one. He’s going to have to deal with the monster he’s created.

“...Behave yourself, Miklan. Carry yourself with the dignity expected of a son of House Gautier or I will be forced to take drastic measures.”

“Fuck off,” is all Miklan says to that, and when his father turns and leaves the room with his own version of that so-called ‘dignity’, he grabs the nearest fragile object and throws it as hard as he can against the door with a shout that sounds more animal than human.

He relishes in the sound of shattering glass and the own primal pain in the back of his throat from screaming himself raw.

_ Time heals all wounds _ , they say. But Miklan doesn’t believe it.

Even wounds that don’t kill you can  _ fester _ and  _ grow _ and never heal if someone keeps picking at it instead of  _ letting it heal _ .

When his father confronts him and tells him he can no longer  _ allow _ his behaviour to continue and if he won’t behave like a son of House Gautier then he will no longer be considered one, it’s almost a relief. Because it means he won’t have to be around these people anymore, these people who can’t even see the fucked up nightmare they’ve created for themselves where they send their kids off to die and then pretend it’s okay because, hey, at least they died  _ in the right way _ , never mind that they never had a fucking choice in the matter.

He’ll at least spite the old man by taking as much with him as he can carry on his back. He doesn’t care about the sidelong glances the servants give him, knowing that even if they report him to his father, he’ll be long gone before the old man has a chance to care. After all, with the royal family in fucking shambles, who has time to care about the family silver?

“Miklan? Everyone is saying you’re— leaving. Are you really being sent away?”

And there’s the only hitch in this plan.

“Our old man doesn’t want me here anymore, Sylvie. He thinks I’m  _ trouble _ .”

He’s right. And Miklan doesn’t intend to stop being trouble, and if Margrave Gautier thinks he’s going to take being thrown out on his ass as some kind of warning, he’s sorely fucking mistaken.

“I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to leave you either, buddy.” His hand comes down on Sylvain’s shoulder as he kneels in front of him. “But I’ve got to go. You’ll be fine, and I’ll figure out some way to write you, okay?”

He doesn’t know how he’s going to get something like that past the Margrave, but he’ll figure something out. He’s not about to leave Sylvain to be warped and twisted by the man who  _ dares _ to call himself their father, but he also can’t stand one more fucking second here with the nobility and their  _ chivalry _ and the rest of the bullshit they spout constantly…

Being disowned is almost a relief. It means the choice has been taken from him, yeah, but it also means that he doesn’t have to twiddle his thumbs and worry.

And what’s one more choice taken from him? They’ve already taken  _ everything else _ .

“I love you, okay? Don’t forget that, and don’t let the Margrave try to make you forget that, either.”

‘I love you’. It’s not something Miklan has said often in his life, or at least, not to many people.

_ I love you _ .

His parents certainly never said it to him, growing up. (His mother tried to pretend she cared, at least up until Sylvain was born, but it was so obviously strained that even then he had known something was wrong. He would have killed for her affection, especially once he figured out his father hated him and was ready to throw him away for the first sign of a child with a Crest, but.

But.)

So, he hasn’t heard it much, either. But Sylvain puts his arms around him and hugs him and tries to be strong, like he hasn’t already been forcing himself to be strong for  _ everyone else _ , and Miklan can’t stand it so he tells him it’s okay, he’s allowed to cry, and Sylvain does, right into his shoulder, and tells him he loves him, too.

Glenn told him he loved him.

Glenn said it to him a lot, actually. Maybe after the first time, when Miklan told him he wasn’t sure anyone had actually ever said that to him before (except for Sylvain, but he was a toddler, and they would tell anyone they loved them).

It was probably just pity that made him say it so much, but it felt like every single time they were alone together and he could say it without fear (and even a few times when they weren’t quite sure), Glenn told him he loved him. As a friend. As a lover. It didn’t matter when. It didn’t matter how.

Miklan cherished every one.

Still does, in the back corner of his mind that he goes to when it’s dark and quiet and he’s alone, out on the road with little else to do except get trapped in his own thoughts. He can practically hear his voice, see his face, feel his hair when he wound run it through his fingers to pick out the knots that Glenn always managed to miss because he was too busy thinking about smacking things with a sword to comb his damn hair properly (not that Miklan was one to talk but at least he’s always had the naturally messy Gautier hair to blame).

If all he has left are memories, then he’s damn well going to make good use of them.

He does start to heal, in time. He never quite moves on, but he can at least say he’s doing better than most people left to deal with the pain and the trauma.

He keeps his eyes open and his ears to the ground; it brings him a sick sort of pleasure to at least know that there are others coping even worse with the whole thing than he is.

In time, he can think about him without wanting to throw things and scream until his throat starts to bleed. But he can never let go, not completely. Not when he knows nothing has changed, not really. Not when the nobility still send their children to die, when there are so many more Glenn’s in the making.

Not when his Sylvie could be the next one.

So he lashes out in what ways he can. He lashes out against the nobility, taking their riches and making them remember that they’re not untouchable. Maybe if they’re reminded of their own mortality they won’t put so much stock in the whole ‘dying the right way’ business.

The worst part is, he doesn’t even know if Glenn would approve of what he’s doing. He was always better than him. Had a mouth on him, sure, but even if he resented being engaged to a girl his brother’s age and shipped off to die, he’s pretty sure he would have given his life to protect Dimitri anyway.

Not because he was the prince. But because he was an innocent kid and his brother’s friend and he needed  _ help _ .

Mostly, Miklan tries not to think about it, because Glenn isn’t allowed to have an opinion anymore. He’s dead, after all.

The dead don’t get to have opinions, after all.

There’s no grave he can visit, not anywhere he can actually go, at least. Glenn’s armour is laid to rest in his family’s tomb.

His body is laid to rest in a mass grave somewhere, or maybe just in the dirt, bones half sticking out, picked clean by predators.

Miklan is a wanted criminal across Faerghus. He wouldn’t be welcome in the Fraldarius family tombs if he came dragging  _ Glenn _ , alive and in the flesh, along with him…

Maybe it’s better this way, he thinks. Glenn wouldn’t have given two shits about the tomb or about him visiting.

Glenn probably wouldn’t have cared much for everything else he’s been up to, either, but it doesn’t bother him the way it used to. He’s made his choices. If Glenn wanted him to be a good person so bad, he could have stayed alive, he thinks.

That’s probably unfair of him. Another thing he doesn’t really care about.

On his birthday every year, though, Miklan has kept up a tradition. A pretty shitty tradition, admittedly, but hey. He and tradition have never gotten along anyway. Why should they start now?

He finds the most absolutely foul bottle of liquor he can get his hands on, lays out under the stars, and just… Talks.

His thieves don’t question it. Or maybe they do. They probably just think he’s drunk.

He talks about everything he can think of, to the point of rambling, and wonders if Glenn can actually hear him. He’s never had much faith in the Goddess, not since he was born without a Crest, but he likes the idea even if he isn’t sure he really believes it.

“I’m gonna do it, Glenn,” he says to empty air, waving his bottle around and not caring how much of his terrible booze ended up on the ground around him. “I’m gonna stick it to my old man and take that damn lance. Show him that he’s not untouchable…”

It’s not like he can use the fucking thing, not without a Crest, but that’s not the point. The point is that he wants to make him mad and there’s not much point other than that.

This is probably the last chance he’ll have to do something like this, he figures.

You don’t steal a sacred fucking relix without inviting a world of trouble, but Miklan doesn’t care.

Someone has to do it, after all. Someone has to shove it in all of their smug noble faces. And it might as well be someone with nothing left to lose.

Maybe he was lying about coping better.

Maybe he’s been lying to himself this entire time.


End file.
